


Mouths to Feed (ain't nothin' in this world)

by SpinnerDolphin



Series: Angel Network [2]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Crowley is terrible in a crisis, F/M, Lucifer POV, Lucifer is only kind of better, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-07 05:48:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18867001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpinnerDolphin/pseuds/SpinnerDolphin
Summary: Crowley is terrible in a crisis. Lucifer really should have guessed this, but apparently the delinquent demon's incompetence is catching. Meanwhile, something awful has escaped from what Crowley so helpfully calls Nightmare World. Frankly, Lucifer is skeptical about the whole thing.[This won't make a lick of sense if you haven't read Devil Put Aside, so read that first!]





	Mouths to Feed (ain't nothin' in this world)

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [口欲之患](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20291188) by [Lacudra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lacudra/pseuds/Lacudra)



> Hi all! Welcome back to this silly story! This one has a bunch of crossover-y stuff in it, but you should be okay having read a Devil Put Aside and knowing Lucifer and/or Good Omens. It's Lucifer POV, and all the crossover stuff is Crowley's connections, so Lucifer is puzzled, too. 
> 
> Also, there's a smidge of Latin in this story. I am rusty beyond rusty; if anyone has any corrections there shoot me a comment and we can talk it out!! I miss Latin like burning. (For those of you who are not Latin nerds, don't worry about it - it's like three lines of dialogue and you'll know what's happening. I'll take any excuse to put Latin in a story! :P )
> 
> ALSO THERE IS NOW A TRANSLATION INTO CHINESE! See endnotes for links.

Lucifer was sleeping.

Strictly speaking, he didn’t need to sleep, not really; Angels didn't sleep. But Earth was funny in several ways; the first, of course, being that sleep was lovely, and the second being that the nearer to Chloe he was, the more sleep he needed, and she was snugged right next to the curve of his body, all warm and alive and wonderful. Sleep went from a relaxing past time to absolutely necessary in a heartbeat, but it was a slow, dozing heartbeat, because she was near and all was right with the world. 

High above them, the stars twinkled, comforting and familiar. Chloe was tucked into one side of him, and Beatrice was tucked into his other side, and they both were letting him drape his wings over them without any sort of human awe or wonder, any of the usual spellbound reactions that humans generally had to an angel's wings. That was a comfort. The wings were still wretched, of course, but if Amenadiel was right, and this self-actualizing thing was real, then—well. It was lovely when Chloe preened them, anyway.

But he was sleeping soundly, dreaming weirdly sweet dreams of Chloe, and the rest of his humans, playing silly chasing games. Even asleep, he could feel Chloe beside him. Some kind of bond, he thought slowly to himself, trying to stay asleep. That ridiculous demon was right. People of angel stock—there was some kind of metaphysical bond. Now if he could just work out what that meant, and then that into sex somehow—

He heard the Enochian before he heard the wings, because Enochian was made to carry long distances.

_Come on! Come on, angel, almost there—just a little longer, he’s close—come on, Aziraphale sweetheartlovedarling you have to keep flying, come on—_

Enochian wasn’t really good at pet names. Heaven was too sterile for that. Crowley had sort of amalgamized a bunch of words to get his point across and hold on—Crowley?

Reluctantly, Lucifer blinked awake.

He was sprawled facedown on a blow up mattress, Chloe ensconced on one side, Beatrice on the other. They’d gone camping, which was apparently a Decker tradition. Lucifer had been skeptical, but the marshmallows had been quite fun, and Chloe’s smiles were brighter than anything he’d ever seen. Even Beatrice, sticky though she may be, had laughed up into the stars and Lucifer had laughed with her.

He’d insisted on the blow up mattress, though, because honestly. He had standards. But they’d slept outside their tent, because the stars were bright, and no bear or wolf would dare harm a human who belonged to Lucifer Morningstar.

_Angel, come on, come on, I know it hurts—Aziraphale you have to keep moving—_

That did not sound good.

Lucifer leaned over and kissed Chloe’s neck, just under her ear. “Darling, you have to get up,” he murmured.

“Nnn,” said Chloe, not a morning person. He smiled.

“Well, I have to get up anyway,” he murmured.

“Nnnn,” Chloe said, more insistently. Very deliberately, she snuggled. His heart tripped over itself and he failed to resist the urge to curl around her, to draw her closer with his wing, minding his primaries so he didn't pop the bloody bed, or hurt her. Damn her. She knew he was weak to that.

“Chloe, my dear, I’m going to call out,” he murmured. “It will be very loud.”

Beatrice stirred at his other side. She buried her fingers into his feathers and scratched. It felt lovely, unfortunately. “Lucifer?” she murmured.

“Beatrice, I’m going to call out,” Lucifer warned her.

She blinked at him out of fuzzy dark eyes. “Call out what?”

Lucifer quirked a smile at her. “ _Here!_ ” he called in Enochian, _“Crowley, just here! I’m here, follow my voice, find me!”_

Enochian was a language made for beings who could fly, or who needed to communicate long distance or over the sound of rushing wind. It had rather a lot in common with the language of birds.

 _“Heard you! Heard, heard, heard! Danger, danger!”_ Crowley’s reply was breathless and relieved.

“What the hell?” blurted Chloe, jolting awake. “Lucifer!” she rubbed at her ears.

It was a little loud, Lucifer thought sheepishly.

“It’s Crowley,” Lucifer said, gently disentangling himself from his two warm loves[1]. “He sounds frightened. And something’s wrong with Aziraphale.”

“Who’s Crowley?” asked Beatrice on a yawn.

“Crowley’s a fallen angel,” Chloe said softly. “He’s a friend. Aziraphale’s his boyfriend.”

 _“Where?”_ cried Crowley.

 _“Here!”_ returned Lucifer without thinking, and his humans flinched at the volume. “Sorry,” he added, and slid out of bed. In the distance, he could hear their wings.

He didn’t need to manually turn on their lanterns – light was kind of his thing – but he did it anyway, just for something to do with his hands. He could feel Chloe and Beatrice watching him from the big soft bed.

He heard Beatrice gasp when they got closer. Those wings did make impressive sounds in the quiet of the camping grounds.

He saw their shadows against the stars, and even from the distance, he could tell one was flying with a wounded wing. What on Earth?

 _“Here!”_ called Lucifer again, short and sharp.

 _“Eyes on you,”_ Crowley replied, an old military term that came out a little stilted. Lucifer was fairly certain that Crowley had never been a soldier. He’d probably worked in the old Hall of Being, an imaginative creature like Crowley, before the Fall. But it was pointless and kind of insulting to speculate, really. Lucifer didn’t like to think of his life in Heaven, and most Greater Demons didn’t, either.

The two shadows spiraled down. One of them gave a cry, and lost control of his descent. Lucifer could hear Crowley swearing from the distance as he dived to catch Aziraphale. He managed to grab him before he hit the ground, and then Crowley landed, a little wobbly, with the angel in his arms.

He’d lost his sunglasses. 

“Asylum,” he blurted breathlessly.

“Granted,” Lucifer said, surprised. “Isn’t that what Angel Network’s for? What happened?”

Crowley panted at him, yellow eyes almost luminescent in the night. Slowly, they filled with tears. He didn’t answer, but to his credit the tears didn’t fall.

“Crowley? Oh, god, is that Aziraphale? Trixie, honey, can you get off—” Chloe shooed her daughter off the bed. “Crowley, bring him here.”

Crowley seemed petrified.

Lucifer sighed.

Crowley was actually a wealth of knowledge. That was who he was, after all, that was his function. Temptation was all about knowledge, after all, the knowledge of how sweet that desire could be, if only you seized it.  Lucifer could draw forth desire itself; Crowley knew things, and he could imagine things, specific things, things you wanted to know, too. It was a bit subtler than Lucifer’s, but then, Crowley was rather low ranking in the grand scheme of things. Crowley was a thinker, though, not a doer. Lovely when you needed to know why your human was so angry at you for making brownies[2] but not so useful when you actually needed him to take action.

Lucifer walked over and took Crowley’s elbow, below Aziraphale’s knee. “Come along, little serpent,” he murmured, towing him over to the bed.

Crowley shivered to life, mostly. He walked woodenly over to the bed, and carefully laid Aziraphale down on it. Having done that, he sat on the side of the bed and carefully spread the injured wing.

Unconscious, Aziraphale moaned.

“It won’t heal,” Crowley whispered. “I’ve tried, but I’m rubbish at healing angels, and he can’t heal it himself – it’s been getting worse. Can you help?” Big yellow eyes somehow managed to convey both  _kicked puppy_ and  _terrified biblical serpent._ Go figure. 

“I can try,” Lucifer said. Healing angels was difficult for demons, even for Lucifer, but it wasn't impossible. “What happened?”

Crowley choked a little. “I’m not sure,” he said. “I think—I think something from Castiel’s world made its way here. It looked--wrong.”

Lucifer had heard that name before. “He’s—the one from the alternate universe.”

Crowley nodded. “Nightmare World,” he said with a palpable shiver. “That's where everything that could go wrong, did go wrong. No corporations; other you didn't stop Belial from burning the Hall of Being during the rebellion, so now they can't make their own bodies. They have to use vessels, living ones; everyone has to _posses_ to walk on Earth. And apparently, in that universe, you never got out of that cage, and went insane. No rule of law in Hell, either. Castiel says it's all just imps down there.”

Lucifer blinked at Crowley, a chill going down his spine. That was--a very vivid picture. 

When he’d first Fallen, his wretched Father had locked him in a cage in Hell. It had taken him two years to open it, and in so doing, he’d learned to pick locks. After that horror, simple Earthly locks were nothing. The idea of being locked in that thing for millennia was…. awful. And without him claiming kingship all those years ago, creating some semblance of order in Hell--the demons would have run amok. Every soul who ended up in Hell would have become an imp, if he hadn't outlawed the intentional creation of imps. It would be chaos. 

The thought of always having to posses living humans to walk on Earth was just--too horrid to contemplate. 

“Nightmare World,” Lucifer echoed faintly, agreeing. “Let me see.” 

Crowley smoothed Aziraphale’s feathers one last time and let Lucifer approach. It clearly cost him effort though, and he even hissed when Lucifer touched the wing, when Aziraphale moaned. To his credit, he did not strike or bite, though he clearly wanted to.  It was strange to see Crowley, usually so polished, behaving like an actual demon.

Lucifer manifested his wings and plucked out a feather. He laid it on the wound, and concentrated.

It did heal, a little, but by the time the feather had lost its glow, the wound was still present. 

Lucifer tried again, with much the same results.

“What?” he said. “What the hell did this? Crowley?”

Crowley swallowed. He shook his head. “I don’t know. It was shaped like a man but—badly. And when it saw us it opened its jaws and there were so many teeth and I got out of the way—but it got Aziraphale—” he was breathing hard.

“Alright. Alright, now. You’re safe now,” Lucifer told him, trying to reassure. Crowley looked ready to cry. Lucifer really hoped he wouldn’t. He didn’t even know what to do with a crying human, let alone a crying demon.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” Crowley told him. “Michael’s Upstairs, and he won’t answer my call anyway because—”

“He’s a douchebag, yes, I’ve met him,” Lucifer said wryly. Michael liked to claim that most things  _weren't his area,_ but fighting monsters was definitely his area. He probably hadn't answered because it was a bloody demon calling him, the prat[3]. 

Crowley huffed a laugh. “Yes. And I’d rather you, anyway, if I’m being frank. Too many bloody angels. Makes a demon want to jump out of his skin.”

There he was. There was Lucifer’s friend, the demon that texted him pictures of food and wine; the one who answered Lucifer’s questions about humans; the one he knew answered Chloe’s questions about angels. Lucifer smiled at him. “Well, don’t do that,” he drawled. “You’re not due for a shed in, oh, a few more months, are you?”

“Very funny,” said Crowley, still stroking Aziraphale’s wing.

It really was a bite mark, Lucifer thought, looking at it. That thing hadn’t broken bone, it seemed, but it had torn muscle. The feathers had helped some, reducing the size of the gory, half-moon slashes, but it certainly hadn’t healed it fully. Some of those tooth-marks went deep enough to nick bone. Flying must have been agony. No wonder Aziraphale had passed out.

“Is there anything I can do to help, Crowley?” Voice like starsong. Chloe had let them do their celestial thing, and now she was rejoining the conversation. Lucifer turned to her, a compass toward true north.

Beatrice had her arms around Chloe’s waist, and she was watching them with big dark eyes. Chloe was petting her hair, and she met Lucifer’s gaze head on, and then Crowley’s. One brave human who loved the Devil and feared no demon. Or at least not Crowley, but then, Crowley wasn't very frightening, snake-eyes aside. 

Crowley swallowed. “I don’t think so,” he said. “I think—the feather helped and I’m going to keep trying to heal it but—I think it’ll be slow going. He probably should sleep the night, and then we can reexamine it in the morning.” Never mind that angels didn't actually need to sleep, but maybe Crowley knew something he didn't. It was likely. Crowley knew a lot of things about Earth that Lucifer didn't, for better or for worse. Maybe he could squeeze it out of him, like water from a wet paper towel.

Crowley seemed to realize something. “I’m sorry to interrupt your—whatever this was. Is that a child?”

“Crowley,” Chloe scolded, “I don’t care what we’re doing. If you need help, you can always call us, right Lucifer?”

Lucifer adored her with every fiber of his being. “Of course,” he said firmly. “Beatrice, come meet Crowley.” He beckoned.

She trotted up and took his hand. He really wished she hadn't. Hers was grubby and kind of wet. How? How was that even possible? They’d just been sleeping, for Dad’s sake! Why were human children so disgusting?

“Hello Crowley,” Beatrice said gravely. “I’m Trixie. Are you a demon like Maze? And this is your angel boyfriend?”

Crowley blinked an exaggerated blink at her. “Maze?”

“Mazikeen,” Lucifer said. “And no, child. Mazikeen is one of the Lilim, what you call a Lesser Demon. Lilith made her from the firmament of Hell. Crowley is a Greater Demon. He is a fallen angel.”

“That’s not very nice,” Beatrice said sternly. “Calling Maze lesser.”

Crowley smiled at her. “Of course it isn’t very nice—Hell isn’t very nice either, is it? I don’t think any less of her, anyway. She could flay me alive, don’t you worry.” He knitted his fingers into Aziraphale’s feathers, far away from the wound.

Beatrice thought about this. “Well,” she said at last, “I guess that’s okay, then. Is your boyfriend going to be okay?”

Crowley bit his lip. “I hope so,” he said.

“Me too,” said Beatrice, because she was good and kind, just like her mother, even if her hands were always sticky. “It’s nice to meet you,” she added.

“You as well,” Crowley sighed. “Another one?” he added to Lucifer wryly, “Really? This one is a good investment, at least. None of my humans ever had offspring, you know.”

Lucifer opened his mouth to respond but Beatrice beat him to it. “Why not?” she asked.

Crowley shrugged at her. “All my humans tended to die young,” he said sadly. “They get hurt, or sick.”

Beatrice blinked. She looked at Lucifer. “Is mom going to get hurt or sick?”

“Not if I can help it,” Lucifer growled.

“Honey, no,” Chloe strode forward. “Crowley’s been around for a long, long time, before medicine was good, right Crowley? All his humans are from long ago.”

“Smallpox,” Crowley agreed, melancholy, “Bubonic plague. The Knights Templar[4]. Things you don’t have to worry about anymore, little one.” He stroked Aziraphale’s wing meditatively. “But you must be tired. It’s late.”

“Did it follow you?” Lucifer asked him gravely. “Whatever it was. Can it fly?”

“No on the flying,” Crowley said. “But it probably tried. I don’t know how fast they move. I was going to send a letter to Castiel as soon as I got somewhere safe.” He looked at Lucifer imploringly.

“Well, you’re somewhere safe now,” Chloe said. Crowley smiled at her.

“You’re really great,” he told her earnestly. “I mean it. Big boss is lucky to have you.”

“I’ve always thought so,” Chloe said with a smile to Lucifer that was so bright his heart fluttered. It was frankly embarrassing, that he should be so affected. But Crowley saw, of course, and Crowley smiled at him, sad and worried for that angel of his. Lucifer didn’t know how Crowley could have possibly Fallen and maintained that core of sweetness. Even Lucifer had felt himself grow bitter in the places where Crowley was kind. 

He was a good investment, that demon.

Lucifer ended up sharing a sleeping bag with Chloe on the hard dirt. He could have miricaled up another mattress, it was true, but it always felt like asking Dad for help and just—no. Anyway, warm Chloe in his arms was just as lovely. He snugged her close, but he didn’t come on to her[5] – because he wanted to know how Crowley did it, how he sent those letters.

“Lucif—” Chloe started, but he hushed her.

“Watch,” he murmured into her hair.

She turned in his arms, nestling into the curve of his body – and that was frankly lovely, too – and together they watched. Behind them, in another sleeping bag, the spawn tossed, turned, and sighed.

Crowley apparently had no compunction about miracles. The parchment paper – and it was parchment paper, seriously, he’d thought better of Crowley – hovered in front of him, and he wrote with a fountain pen. He wrote quickly, dramatically, sweeping arm indicating large, dramatic letters to get his point across. When he finished, he snapped a finger and it rolled up neatly.

He looked around furtively.

“More things in Heaven and Earth, isn’t it, angel?” he whispered to Aziraphale’s still form.

“Boreas,” Crowley whispered, “frigidissimus omniorum, tibi fer nuntium volo.” He held out the letter.

The _winds_. That was clever. The winds were elementals; they didn’t have to follow anyone’s laws. They were here long before Dad, thought Lucifer, and would be long after. Boundaries between universes were nothing to the wind. What made them listen to Crowley?  

Nothing, apparently. There was a long, silent moment. Chloe shifted in Lucifer’s arms, clearly confused. He hushed her again.

Then the breeze picked up. It was a cold breeze, far colder than was usual for LA, but then, Crowley had called up Boreas—the North Wind.

Chloe shivered against Lucifer. Concerned, he dropped a hand down to her belly and rubbed, radiating enough heat to warm without burning. She shivered again, stomach muscles twitching, but this time for different reasons. He cuddled her smugly and felt his own stomach warm.

Boreas was a funny looking creature. It was like a cat, or a flying squirrel – like some kind of flying dinosaur, form vague and ill-defined. It jumped from stone to stone then leaped into the air, bat-like wings spread.

“Non tuus servus sum, Serpens,” snarled the wind in a thousand stolen voices, and that answered one question. Kind of a relief, actually. Crowley hadn’t somehow harnessed the winds to do his bidding.

“Minime,” whispered Crowley, low and crooning and tempting, “Sed visne redire tuis amicis? Res meus amicus sciendi sunt. Neminis servus es, Boreas, sed Frigidus Mundus te postulat. Feresne meum nuntium?” 

Boreas leaped, moaning, and snatched the letter from Crowley’s hands before vanishing.

“Oh, that’s clever,” Lucifer whispered.

“Was it?” Chloe replied, wry, “Because I have no idea what just happened. Was that Latin?”

“Yes. Don’t you know all elementals speak Latin?” Lucifer drawled. She elbowed him and he chuckled.

“Alright, alright. Truth be told they prefer dead languages, any dead language, and these days Latin is what comes to mind. Crowley called up the North Wind and got it to bring the letter over to the other universe, by tempting it to go somewhere—colder. Boreas likes the cold. Sorry, that’s its name. Boreas.”

“You know I can hear you,” Crowley said, sounding exhausted.

Lucifer winced, and he felt Chloe wince, too.

“Just curious,” Lucifer said.

“Well, Castiel usually sends Zephyr back. The West Wind. Zephyr likes it here better, and Boreas there. They end up swapping a lot for—I have no idea, elemental reasons. If you remind them where they like to live, they’ll usually snap back to the other world. Oh, that was fast—salve, Zephyr.”

The wind whispered through the low trees, warm and pleasant. Zephyr dropped something into Crowley’s lap.

“What does he say?” Lucifer asked.

Crowley stared at the missive. Then he turned it around.

Scribbled hastily with blue pen, in huge, terrified letters, was one word.

 

LEVIATHAN.

 

\---

Sleeping was kind if difficult after that. Chloe didn’t know what Leviathan was, and frankly Lucifer only had an inkling – something oozing, primordial and awful. Also vaguely a cephalopod? It was unclear. He’d never seen it, anyway, though he knew it sleepeth beneath the waves, or whatever it was.

Chloe dropped off fairly quickly, a darling human exhausted by a day of fun and from being woken in the night by a traumatized demon. She was warm and soothing and wonderful in his arms. Lucifer rested his chin on her golden head, feeling her breath on his neck, and he watched Crowley.

Crowley didn’t stay man-shaped. He transformed, once the humans were asleep, and coiled atop Aziraphale’s back, between his wings. He stretched his neck to rest his snout in the angel’s curls, at the back of his head. The sound he made was small, because the Serpent of Eden was small, a little green viper, but Lucifer could hear it. He thrummed, a low _love_ sound angels made, one Lucifer hadn’t heard in literal eons, besides from his own throat. 

Chloe didn’t know what it meant, not really, but Lucifer suspected she’d guessed. She’d started humming back to him, the best approximation a human throat could make, and it always made him feel—warm. Like she really did love him, as she said, like she was trying to learn to talk to the base angel in him, never mind that that angel had been through the ringer. She acknowledged they were different species and tried to sing across the divide. It was nice, anyway.

He watched that little viper with the glaring yellow eyes. An angel and one of the Fallen—a Greater Demon. Technically brothers, of a sort, but human rules didn’t really apply to angels, and anyway, angels were brothers the way all men were brothers. These two were distant enough that Lucifer didn’t want to hurl. It was strange to see, strange to hear such obvious love from one of his own creatures, never mind that he’d set Crowley free. 

Perhaps more asleep than unconscious, Aziraphale sighed. He must have relaxed, because Crowley settled visibly, but he didn’t sleep. Keeping watch, Lucifer thought, approving. Good demon.

“I’ll take second shift,” Lucifer offered, low enough not to wake warm, resting Chloe. Crowley would hear.

“No,” said the demon, something he never would have dared, before. “I’m taking the full night. I can tasssssste them in the air. Ssleep, boss.” He flicked his little black tongue.

Crowley hadn’t called him boss before he’d set him free, Lucifer reflected. A nickname, maybe? Or, in freeing him, had he won the demon’s loyalty in truth? Hard to say. Hell’s politics didn’t apply to Crowley – he was just as fascinating as the humans who stumbled around on Earth, in his way.

Either way, it went against every instinct Lucifer had, to sleep while there was a rogue demon about. He settled in for the night, awake, Chloe snoring faintly against his chest. Together, he and the demon waited out the night.

Aziraphale woke up at one point, shifting uncomfortably, but Crowley thrummed at him again, low and soothing enough to make even Lucifer’s eyes droop. Funny, the things you forget. Lucifer was forgetting the lingo. Real, selfless affection wasn’t exactly common in Hell, and Amenadiel never made love-sounds at him, the bastard.

Aziraphale sighed. “Really, my dear.” He settled.

“Does it hurt?” Crowley murmured. 

“Terribly uncomfortable, in truth.” 

“I’m sssso ssssssorry,” Crowley said, anguished.

“Not your fault,” Aziraphale sighed again.

“Go back to sleep,” Crowley whispered. “I’m sssstanding guard.”

“I’ll make it up to you dear boy,” mumbled the angel, a little slurred, before falling back asleep.

“No you won’t, you prat,” Crowley murmured. He pressed closer to the angel, if that were possible, and the rest of the night was spent in silence.

Lucifer watched the sky start to lighten, first by tiny degrees, and then tumbling towards dawn. The stars winked out one by one, drowned by the sun’s light. More out of habit than anything else, he wished them well as they disappeared, each one, one at a time[6]. He felt it when Beatrice stirred at his back, yawning and mumbling. Crowley made the mistake of raising his head at the sound.

The child gasped.  “A snake!”

“Jusssst me,” said Crowley softly. “G’morning, Beatrice.”

“Crowley?” she gasped in delight. “You can be a snake?”

“I’m the Serpent of Eden,” said Crowley. “So it’s the opposite, really. I’m a snake who can be a man.”

Beatrice sat up. “Thought you were an angel?”

“One of the Fallen, yes. Your first form—kind of sticks with you. Don’t ask me why.”

Stealthily, Beatrice wriggled out of her sleeping bag and made her way over to Crowley. “Can I pet you?”

Lucifer stifled a chuckle. That child was utterly fearless. Crowley was a green pit viper. He was deeply, deeply venomous. Of course, Crowley would never bite her.  Never mind Crowley’s weirdly gentle nature, no angel, fallen or otherwise, other than Aziraphale, was officially allowed to kill humans. Besides, Lucifer would murder him, if he so much as thought about it. 

“Are your hands warm?” asked the demon.

Beatrice put her hands on her cheeks to test the temperature. She nodded.

“Go on, then,” Crowley said, long suffering. “I’m not moving from this angel’s back.”

Very carefully, Beatrice stroked his bright green, triangular head. Crowley permitted this, and Lucifer decided then and there that, Maze aside, this was most definitely his favorite demon.

“How’sss his wing look?” Crowley asked after a moment.

“The coverts and the alula are all messed up,” whispered Beatrice, words she knew because Chloe and Lucifer had taught her, because she wanted to preen him, too. That had been a surprisingly fun evening[7]. 

“I’m worried about that alula,” Crowley admitted on a sigh. “I think he hurt it on the descent, but it won’t heal. I don’t know what’s wrong.”

“The thing bit him, right?” Beatrice asked.

The serpent nodded without dislodging her hand.

“Did you clean him off? Maybe its, like, saliva is getting in the way.”

Crowley blinked his serpentine eyes, and so did Lucifer. Clever girl. But if course she was. She was _his_ sticky disgusting little urchin, after all. Lucifer only chose the best.  

“Not a bad idea,” Crowley said. He leaned up into her stroking fingers. “Thanksss.”

Beatrice beamed. “I can help fix feathers, too! Mommy and Lucifer taught me.”

“Thought’s appreciated, but Aziraphale won’t like that,” Crowley said gently. “When he’s healthy he’s not fussed, but like this, you’ll scare him. Preening’s funny that way.”

“I don’t want to scare him,” Beatrice said regretfully.

“Assk when he’s better,” Crowley told her. “He’ll surely let you.”

“What about you?”

“I—that’s very kind of you but I—”

“Have been to Hell and back, my dear girl,” murmured Aziraphale, apparently awake. “People like to attack from behind, in Hell. Makes a demon anxious. Give it more than just a day; Crowley requires trust, first. Some of us are—” he tried to sit up and then fell back onto the mattress with a groan, the snake bouncing on his back.

“Sssstop moving!” Crowley said sharply.

In Lucifer’s arms, Chloe stirred. The world narrowed to her warm weight, her golden hair. The way she sighed. He burrowed into her.

“G’morning, darling,” he murmured, cuddling her close.

“Lucifer,” Chloe sighed. She brushed her lips against his neck and it was like falling in love all over again. His heart tripped on itself, his breath caught, and he felt her smile against him.  

“Sleep well?” Lucifer murmured, lips against her hair. She smelled lovely, even without perfume: human-y and warm and comforting. She was perfect.  

“Mmmm no,” she told his throat. “Rocks in my back.” She smiled against his skin and his heart turned over again. It really was quite absurd, the effect she had on him, he thought giddily, pleased that she was awake. He was the bloody King of Hell, but she was like a second sunrise. “And everyone kept talking.”

Damn. “Heard that, did you?”

“In bits and snatches. Is Trixie terrorizing our visiting angel and demon?”

Lucifer peered over Chloe and looked. Crowley had somehow migrated to Beatrice’s shoulders and was scolding Aziraphale from there. The angel was sitting up, but gingerly. His wing still looked a sight, feathers torn out, skin swollen beneath the down that remained. He looked tired.

As Lucifer watched, Beatrice handed Crowley back over, and the angel hugged the little snake close.

“Just talking, looks like,” Lucifer told Chloe softly. He nipped at her ear, because he could, and he knew it made her shiver.

“Lucifer,” she hissed, but instead of smacking him she caressed his chest and that felt positively delightful, until she wriggled from the sleeping bag, leaving him bereft and alone.

“Monkey, what are you doing? You know Aziraphale needs his rest.”

“I was just keeping them company,” Beatrice said. Lucifer sighed. It was probably time to rise anyway.

He slipped out of the sleeping bag and heard Crowley hiss at him in greeting.  

“Well, we can’t stay here all day,” Lucifer said. “Come back to Lux,” he told the little serpent, “And we can fix up that angel of yours.”

Crowley arched his neck up so the top of his head touched just under the angel’s chin, and then back down. He nodded. “Alright,” he said.

The leaves in the trees rustled. The temperature didn’t rise, but the soft gust of wind that danced around their campsite was warm and friendly. A funny little creature with way too many wings, invisible to the humans, gamboled playfully up to Aziraphale and deposited a letter in his lap.

“Oh!” said Chloe, surprised, eyes fixed on the letter. It must have looked like it appeared from nothing, to her. He kind of resented Zephyr for being invisible to mortals. Chloe--and Beatrice, frankly--would probably enjoy the sight, and all those silvery wings.  

“Castiel,” Aziraphale murmured, and carefully unrolled the message. Crowley eeled up to his shoulder to read too, and Beatrice Decker, the little rascal, sat on Aziraphale’s good side and read, as well.

“Trixie!” scolded Choe.

“What’s borax?” asked Beatrice.

“It’s a cleaning chemical,” Lucifer answered, puzzled. What a strange question. “Why?”

Wordlessly, Aziraphale offered him the letter. Chloe gathered near, warm and comforting, and together they read.

 

_Dear Crowley,_

_Forgive me for my hasty reply; Dean was in the middle of something fairly stupid, but I knew you needed that answer quickly. We have averted our crisis for now (Shapeshifters are messy business), you’ll be pleased to know._

_Leviathans are thankfully not venomous, though they can do quite a bit of damage to angels. With lots of rest, Aziraphale will be just fine. Keep off the injured wing, however; he should not fly. I could not tell you for certain if keeping the wing out or winched in will help more, since ‘out’ is never an option here, but I imagine that ‘out’ will help some._

_I am terribly sorry that Leviathan is affecting even you, Crowley. It was I who released them upon the world, and it pains me deeply that they should now plague your universe, too. Your universe is kind and good and such monsters have no place there._

_My hunters discovered that a chemical called Borax causes them pain and will incapacitate a Leviathan long enough to give a man time to remove the creature’s head. Please do not do this yourself, Crowley, for though you are talented in many ways, swordplay is not one of them and I fear you will be devoured. Wait til Aziraphale is healed, if you can, and then work together. Or perhaps you might call down your Michael? Do be careful, though, because if your Michael is anything like ours, he will be impetuous, and that is a good way to get killed, when facing down a Leviathan. They are frightfully strong._

_Please contact me if you need any other help or advice; I will do everything within my power to aid you._

_Best wishes,_

_Castiel_

 

So that’s the famed Castiel, Lucifer thought, eyeing the brusque handwriting. He certainly knew Crowley well, and his succinct description was helpful.

Still….

“Borax?” murmured Lucifer, reading over Chloe’s shoulder. “Are you serious?”

“So—cut off its head?” asked Chloe, ever the pragmatist.

Crowley did not reply.

“Castiel knows what he’s talking about,” Aziraphale answered, tired.

“He says he released them,” Lucifer growled. This alone sounded like grounds for punishment.

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, he was definitely punished for that,” Crowley muttered, at last, because he knew where Lucifer’s mind went. “I mean, living in that awful universe is frankly punishment enough.”

There was a nudge on his arm. Lucifer looked down, surprised, at Chloe. She'd poked him. 

“He’s trying to help,” she said, and it took him a moment to realize she meant Castiel. “And he sounds—nice.”

Really? Nice? He sounded like he was feeling guilty. Lucifer frowned down at the letter, snaking an arm around Chloe’s waist, a little nervously. He felt something tightly knotted in him relax when she not only permitted the touch but leaned into it. He read through the note again. Definitely guilty. Who ever heard of a guilty angel? Weird.

“Think bewildered alien,” Crowley was saying dryly. “Who really loves his humans, but keeps screwing everything up ‘for the greater good.’ No one can make a situation go from bad to worse like Castiel. Poor bastard.”

“You’re certain he knows what he’s talking about?” Lucifer growled, because that wasn’t exactly a shining recommendation.

“Very much so,” Aziraphale said. He smiled tightly at Lucifer. “Understand, his universe is very different to ours. They have a great many monsters, and the humans he loves hunt them. Castiel has made many mistakes, but on this he will be certain.”

Humans who hunted monsters. Lucifer looked down at Chloe’s golden head, and he suppressed a shiver. Policing was dangerous, fun and exhilarating except when she got hurt, but monsters? He tried to picture it, Chloe taking down…. a giant, maybe, or a werebeast and his heart tripped in horror, not because it was impossible—but because it was plausible. She would win, he thought, tenacious, fierce Chloe would definitely win, but at great cost. It was a terrible thing, being a monster hunter.

If she hunted monsters, he’d get her a hound, Lucifer thought in a strange, wild corner of his mind. A hellhound. To keep her safe. He’d call it Protector[8] or something.

Best—knock that idea right out of Chloe’s head, he thought nervously. “Well,” he said cheerily, “Nothing we can do from the wilderness, is there? Let’s pack up and make our way back to Lux. Aziraphale, can you walk?”

“I—I think so,” said the angel.

Crowley slithered down to the ground and transformed. As a man, he offered Aziraphale a hand up off the blow up. Once the angel was standing, he snapped his fingers and the blow up expelled its air and rolled up; the tent packed itself, as did their bags.

Beatrice clapped. “Can you do that for everything?” she gasped.

“It’s cheating,” Lucifer sniffed.

“Yes, and yes, it’s definitely cheating,” Crowley said. He got his shoulder under Aziraphale’s.

“Useful, though,” Chloe said, a twinkle in her eye. She was teasing him. Minx. Lucifer thought it showed great personal growth on his part that he wasn’t hurt by it; she had no idea about his reasons for not performing miracles like that. Take that, Linda.

Chloe scooped up her packed bag and dug out some breakfast bars.  “Have something to eat, Monkey. Lucifer? Aziraphale, Crowley? I packed enough to feed a small army.”

Lucifer took one cheerily, and then passed two to Crowley, despite both his and Aziraphale’s protests. They munched.

 _“This is disgusting, sunshinesweetlove,”_ Aziraphale whispered in Enochian, munching on the bar. He also made an amalgam petname, and kind of a nice one, too[9].

 _“Yes but Lucifer gave it to us,”_ hissed Crowley, chewing like he was trying to get it over with.

 _“Lucifer also speaks Enochian,”_ Lucifer said, amused.  They stared at him with twin expressions of horror. “If you didn’t want it,” Lucifer added, in English, “You don’t have to eat it.” He took a bite of his bar.

Crowley and Aziraphale were not wrong. It was terrible. Dry as sawdust, and about as sweet. He must have made a face, because Chloe snickered.

“Not up to standard, Lucifer Morningstar?” She asked, teasing, “Not the five-star breakfast you envisioned?”

“They don’t like it either,” Lucifer whined.

Crowley and Aziraphale sputtered.

“Angel-bane!” cried Beatrice. She ran in a circle around them. “We found angel bane! It’s Nature Valley bars!”

They made their way down the mountain. They hadn’t actually climbed very high or very far, mostly because Lucifer had protested. Still, he kept up with Chloe, who chased Beatrice in circles around and around the path, their laughter music in his ears. Lucifer joined the game, growling an archdemon’s growl, but Beatrice only laughed harder, ran faster, not cowed in the slightest. It was, frankly, lovely.

It was only when Chloe straightened up and cried, “Oh, no—Aziraphale—” that Lucifer looked behind them.

The angel was leaning hard against Crowley, whose eyes had taken on a hellish glow. They’d both winched in their wings for ease of travel, but it only seemed to make Aziraphale sicker.

When Chloe approached, Crowley actually snarled at her.

Not acceptable.

She didn’t seem to realize that was what it was, because she sputtered in confusion when Lucifer pulled her behind him. He let his eyes glow red, and he stared Crowley down. Aziraphale made a frightened noise.

“Lucifer,” Chloe hissed.

“He is not allowed to threaten you,” Lucifer replied calmly. He glared into those golden eyes until the hellish light went out of them, until Crowley blinked. He sucked in a breath.

“Now apologize,” growled Lucifer.

“Ssorry, I’m sssorry,” Crowley whispered immediately. “I’m worried, I’m sssorry—”

Aziraphale made no comment. He just leaned on Crowley, looking very sick.

“It’s alright, Crowley, I barely noticed—” Chloe said. She shouldered up to Lucifer and tried to nudge him out of the way, but he didn’t move.

“I—I would have bitten you,” Crowley said, horrified. “I’m venomous. I’m sso sssorry. Please don’t come closer.”

Chloe stopped in her tracks. “Do you want to rest?” she asked.

“No,” Crowley panted. “The ssooner we get down, the better. Please.”

They went down, with less play this time. By the time they made it to Chloe’s car, it was nearly noon.

They piled in, Crowley transforming again so they could fit. Aziraphale fell asleep against the window, and Crowley thrummed at him, clearly extremely worried. Lucifer was concerned too, frankly. Hadn’t Castiel said that Leviathan wasn’t venomous? This didn’t look like not venomous to Lucifer.

Not that Aziraphale was really his concern, but Crowley definitely was.

They drove to Lux in silence. When they got there, Lucifer got a shoulder under Aziraphale’s, and navigated them to the elevator, despite the angel’s weak protests and Crowley’s yellow eyed glare. The Serpent did not change back into a man.

“Lucifer.” Chloe stopped him at the elevator door. “I’m going to take Trixie home. Do you need anything?”

“We’ll be fine, darling,” he murmured, sorry to see her and the child go. He felt a small flush of resentment toward Crowley’s angel, ruining a perfectly lovely weekend. Angels. Honestly.

“If you need anything, call,” she told him firmly. When he nodded, she stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. He closed his eyes, leaned into it. He’d severely underestimated cheek-kisses in the past, Lucifer thought with a sigh. “I love you,” she murmured quietly and he couldn’t stop it, he thrummed at her, low and soft, but at least she didn’t know what it meant.

Probably.

She smiled at him warmly and cupped his cheek. His heart tripped over itself. She definitely knew what it meant, didn't she? He was in so much damned trouble. He held her gaze helplessly, and watched her smile widen. He got another kiss for his efforts, and then she was gone, collecting her spawn and heading out the door. He watched them go wistfully. 

“Mirabile visu[10],” murmured Aziraphale in his ear.

“Auditu[11],” Crowley hissed softly, a correction that was possibly even more embarrassing.

“Oh, shut up,” Lucifer muttered, and he got them through the threshold and into the elevator.

\---

Lucifer hated performing miracles, so he ordered the Borax online, same-day delivery, while Crowley had bundled Aziraphale into the shower. He hoped the sex was good, he thought sourly, because he was missing out on Chloe for this.

When they emerged, wearing adorably mismatched dressing gowns, Aziraphale actually looked a touch better. Crowley got him a chair, and started fussily preening Aziraphale like it was the day before prom. Funny to watch, really. Aziraphale went all mushy in the chair, sitting on it the wrong way 'round and drooping over its back. 

Lucifer kept an eye on them. Maze had taken care of Lucifer’s wings in Hell, he mused, but it had never felt nice—more perfunctory than anything else. Preening was not sexy, not ever, unless it was Chloe doing it, but only sometimes, a mystery Lucifer had yet to solve. It always felt lovely when it was Chloe though, sexy or not.  Like a really, really excellent massage.

“I ordered Borax,” Lucifer told them at last, a little lamely. “Should be here later today.”

Crowley looked over at Lucifer, cocking his head and straightening some cream-colored tertiaries.  He seemed to have relaxed some, now that Aziraphale didn’t look so glassy-eyed. “You’re going to do battle with Leviathan, boss?”

That sounded far too heroic for Lucifer’s taste. He wished he could just call Amenadiel and convince him to do the undoubtedly messy job, but getting him down from Heaven rather than just pulling him out of his flat felt too much like asking for help, rather than giving a task.

“I was rather hoping you’d come with me, Serpent dear—I need someone to clean up the mess.”

Crowley swallowed. He rested a palm against Aziraphale’s back, a comforting, comfort-seeking gesture. “I’m not much of a fighter.”

“I’ve always been more of a lover, myself,” Lucifer agreed lightly. “But this has to be taken care of, Crowley, and I’m hardly going to bring a human on the case.”

“Humans fight them in the other world,” Crowley whispered weakly.

Lucifer felt himself bristling. “If you think for one _second_ I’m going to bring any one of them anywhere _near_ that creature—”

“Just wait,” Aziraphale sighed. “Wait for me to be well again. I have a sword. I can do it.”

“Angel—” Crowley blurted.

“We don’t have that kind of time,” Lucifer said sharply.

“I’m not leaving him alone!” Now Crowley whirled, trembling, defiant courage on his face. It would be kind of adorable, if it weren’t so frustrating. A puppy, standing up to a lion. Well. A little snake and a dragon, maybe.

“I’ll call Linda to keep him company, how does that sound?” Lucifer said, coaxing. Linda was a doctor. And she knew about angels, so there was that. 

“I’m not a child,” Aziraphale sniffed. “Or an invalid. Now that we have washed the saliva from my wings, I am feeling much better and the healing is taking effect. Beatrice is a very clever young lady; it would appear she was right. Give me some time.”

“That creature is walking the streets _now_ ,” Lucifer gritted. “I’m calling Linda.” He pulled out his cell phone over Crowley’s sputtering.

He glared at the demon while it rang. Crowley wilted.

“Lucifer,” sighed Linda when she picked up, “Not that isn’t lovely to hear from you, but it’s a Sunday.”

“Dr. Linda!” Lucifer said cheerfully, “I have a favor to ask.”

“For the last time, I am not running naked through a bouncy castle, Lucifer.”

“That was months ago, doctor!” Honestly, some people. No sense of adventure. “But there’s been a bit of an emergency in the celestial world—do you remember Crowley and his angel, Aziraphale?”

“Clever, very English, extremely gay?”

Lucifer eyed Aziraphale from behind. Yes, those descriptors were all accurate. “Yes that’s the one! He’s been injured—”

“Lucifer, I am not that kind of doctor!”

“No, no, no,” Lucifer soothed her. “He’s on the mend. I just need someone to keep him company while Crowley and I go off and do battle with the thing that hurt him.”

“I am so not made for battle,” Crowley whimpered. Lucifer put a finger to his lips. He was on the phone! So disrespectful; definitely a mistake, setting him free. Crowley was developing all kinds of bad habits.

“That’s all,” Linda said suspiciously.

“That’s all,” Lucifer told her, soothing.

There was a long silence. Then she sighed, put upon.

“Fine. But I’m raiding your fridge.”

“Raid away! The liquor’s up for grabs, too,” Lucifer told her cheerfully.

“I’ll take you up on that. Give me a half an hour.”

They might not have a half an hour, Lucifer opened his mouth to say, but she’d hung up on him. Damn. He looked back over at the angel and the demon.

Crowley had knelt into front Aziraphale’s chair. The angel was stroking through Crowley’s hair, whispering low and soft to him. It wasn’t sexual, but it was just as jarring. Moreso; Lucifer would have preferred to have turned around to see Crowley performing fellatio. This was—something else. Lucifer found himself unable to look at them. He found that he missed Chloe terribly, which was absurd, because he’d just seen her little over an hour ago.

“Who wants breakfast?” Lucifer blurted, trying to make his heart stop inexplicably aching. “I’m making omelets. We have a half hour til Linda gets here.”

“Go on, my dear,” Aziraphale murmured, and Crowley got to his feet. He followed Lucifer to the kitchen area, eyes downcast and quiet.

What a weird demon, Lucifer thought, not for the first time.

Crowley didn’t offer to make omelets, like literally any other demon would[12]. He just sat on the other side of the bar and watched Lucifer cook pensively. Abruptly, he asked, “Where did you learn to make an omelet?”

“France,” Lucifer replied easily. “I think it was—sometime in the 1600s.” He looked at Crowley for a long moment. He suspected Crowley had a story to tell about this. “You?” he asked, on a hunch.

“Pompeii, actually,” said Crowley. “Course, it wasn’t called an omelet then. This was before volcano day, you understand.”

Lucifer sighed. He would have liked to have visited Pompeii. By all accounts it was his kind of place. “I didn’t get the chance to see it,” he said, regretful.

“You’d’ve liked it,” Crowley said. “ _Lots_ of orgies. They practically raised it to an art form. And the wine was excellent, too.”

Something wasn’t adding up. Lucifer had been to Rome, back in the day.  It was long after Pompeii, but still. High class people didn’t cook. Ordinary _men_ didn’t cook, really. “Pompeii,” Lucifer said slowly. “How did you get in the kitchens?”

Crowley grimaced. “Caught that, did you? It started off all fine and good, you know. Then I got pegged for a foreigner, and even that wasn’t so bad, but then I lost a bet to bloody Publius Aurelius and found myself a house slave—”

Crowley’s story meandered through breakfast. Lucifer made three omelets, at Crowley’s insistence, and the demon popped over to give one to Aziraphale. Lucifer followed at an amble, listening to the demon chatter about how he had “Bloody _lived_ the Golden Ass[13], okay, Apuleius had no idea what he was talking about—” which was fairly entertaining, all told. It killed the time, anyway.

Aziraphale looked like he wanted to interject at several instances, but was feeling too tired to do so. For the best, really. Lucifer liked Crowley’s rambling, absurd stories. Once the demon relaxed, he was actually good company. If they ever ended up back in Hell, Lucifer would make Crowley an advisor, just for the sheer entertainment value.

But they wouldn’t end up back in Hell. Lucifer wouldn’t allow it. Gentle Crowley belonged on Earth, and Lucifer belonged wherever Chloe was. That was just the way it was.

Eventually, the elevator dinged quietly.

“About time!” Lucifer called to Linda, who rolled her eyes.

“I get here when I get here, Lucifer,” she said, long-suffering. “I’m the one doing you a favor, remember?” She paused. “Does this mean you owe me?”

“Of course,” Lucifer told her cheerily, and slipped over to usher her inside. “Well here he is, you remember Aziraphale, say hello!”

“Oh, _no_ ,” Linda breathed, taking in Aziraphale’s gnawed wing like it was a great calamity and not a mildly amusing instance wherein an Angel of the Lord turned into a chew toy.  “What happened?”

“A Leviathan, apparently.” Aziraphale smiled at her tiredly. “It _is_ healing. Or rather, it’s responding to healing, now that we’ve got that creature’s saliva off. This is all very silly, really—I’m not an invalid.”

“No, but you are injured,” Crowley said sharply, fretfully, because he was apparently a mother hen.  “And anyway, we can’t leave yet; we haven’t any Borax.” The last he addressed to Lucifer.

“Borax?” Linda blinked at Lucifer, owlish behind her fetching glasses. “You have boxes and boxes of it by the elevator on the ground floor. Why do you need Borax?”

Lucifer clapped his hands. “Excellent! Crowley, go fetch some; I’m fairly certain I have some water pistols lying around somewhere.”

Crowley went, but he froze in his tracks when Aziraphale growled.

“He is not,” the angel said with surprising force for someone with a great bite mark in their wing, “Your slave. You set him free.”

Lucifer didn’t like his tone. He also didn’t like that he was right. He felt himself broadening his shoulders, glaring, ready to snarl back.

“You did set him free, Lucifer,” Linda told him gently, and Lucifer felt himself deflate. “I thought it showed great personal growth.” She smiled at him.

“Regardless,” Crowley said, loud and uncomfortable, “I’m getting the Borax. We need it.” He disappeared down the elevator.

“Apparently it hurts them,” Aziraphale said, apropos to nothing.

“Hurts what?” Linda asked.

“Leviathan,” sighed the angel. “The creature that bit me.”

“Borax fights the Leviathan,” Linda parroted, incredulous.

“So they say.” Lucifer grinned at her. “Crowley and I are going to find out, aren’t we?”

“If you get him hurt,” Aziraphale whispered, somehow managing to pull off threatening while looking like he wanted to keel over from sheer exhaustion, “Or, or killed—I won’t be held accountable for my actions. Do you understand me? I will release Islington[14], Lucifer. I will set it loose on this city you love so well. I will call down Michael. I will rain down fire, Satan, if you so much as bruise my demon.”

“Ooooh,” Lucifer crooned, despite the chill that went down his spine, because Aziraphale definitely meant that and Michael, after all, always won in the end. “How vicious of you.”

“Do not,” Aziraphale added, low and exhausted and every inch the disgraced Cherubim he was, “test me.”

“Hurt Linda,” Lucifer said, kind of more jovially than he meant, “And I will kill you dead.”

Linda gave him an unimpressed _are you serious is that all you have to say??_ sort of look.

“I would never hurt a human unprovoked,” Aziraphale sighed, subsiding back into his chair. “You must know that.”

“And yet, you just threatened me with _Islington_ , of all psychopaths,” Lucifer replied. “Islington, who destroys entire cities[15]. That is quite a lot of people, Aziraphale.” Angels, Lucifer thought, slow burning anger rising. Hypocrites all.

Aziraphale shrugged at him painfully. “You know what they say. All’s fair in love and war.”

The elevator dinged, thank Dad, distracting him from that awful, tight feeling in his gut that somehow originated with Aziraphale’s glare.

Crowley strolled out of the elevator, all twelve boxes of Borax floating behind him like an absurd flock of ducklings. “Angel, I’m leaving some behind for you,” he said lightly. “Just in case.”  

“Thank you, dear boy,” Aziraphale said warmly, like he hadn’t just been threatening to bring down LA with fire and the mad angel Islington a second ago. “Dr. Martin, would you mind mixing our share up in a bucket? Just in case. I would—but my wing—” he gave her a piteous look that did not fool Lucifer for a second, not after he was spitting threats.

It didn’t fool the good doctor, either. She looked Aziraphale up and down, frowning. “You’re terrified,” she said.

Aziraphale blinked at her placidly. “Of course I am. My Crowley is going off to battle, and he is not a creature made for battle, and I am here, injured and largely defenseless.”

“You’re posturing because you’re afraid,” Linda tried again.

“Wouldn’t you be?” Aziraphale asked frankly. “You’ll forgive me, but that is the Great Adversary, for better or for worse. Now I am different from most angels in that I know that good and evil are largely names for sides, and true virtue and true filth both come from humans alike. But I remember the Fall. I remember the damage it caused, to everyone. He is taking my demon into danger without me.” The last was piteous.

Next to Lucifer, Crowley quavered and swallowed, like Aziraphale was tugging at his heartstrings, instead of being an arse. Seriously, Lucifer thought, looking at the demon. Seriously, Crowley?

“You’d rather I leave it, and let that thing roam the streets?” Lucifer asked instead of giving voice to that thought, though he couldn’t quite hide his irritation.

“I’d rather you’d wait until I am well!” Aziraphale burst out.

Then Crowley spoke, surprising him. “We don’t know how long that will be, angel. I’ll be fine. I’m running with the Adversary, right?”

They locked eyes, and Lucifer could almost see six thousand years of communication. It shined like a beacon and was equally hard to watch. He turned away, blinded.

Linda caught his eye. She smiled at him softly, reassuringly. It helped.

Then Crowley snapped a finger, and a deeply ridiculous bright yellow watergun with a silly backpack appeared in his hand and on his back, respectively. He offered another one to Lucifer.

Lucifer took it gingerly. “Why do you keep doing that?”

“Too convenient not to,” Crowley said, like it was totally inconsequential, like it wasn’t begging Dad for help, every damned time, like claws screeching down an exposed nerve. The demon trotted up to his angel and, despite Lucifer and Linda’s eyes, he kissed him, weirdly gentle still, like he was making a point.

“Be safe,” murmured Aziraphale. “Do you need my sword?”

“Keep it,” Crowley said before Lucifer could sputter out an _Absolutely!_ because the flaming sword of one of the Cherubim, never mind that he was also the Guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden, was a hell of a thing to have[16]. “I’m pretty sure any old blade will do.”

Any old blade. He huffed. Lucifer had a few of those.  He marched himself over to his library, where he kept a few old things.

Maze liked her Hell-forged blades, and they did come in handy. But Lucifer liked Earth, and earthly things, and he’d gotten the katana in the twenties, the last time he’d come to Earth. It’d be a treat to use it. He buckled the scabbard across his back, kind of awkward with the watergun-pack.

He strolled back to find Crowley waiting for him by the elevator. Together, they left without looking back.

\----

Once outside, Crowley tilted his head and spread his wings. That water pack really was ridiculous, but it didn’t hinder flight too much. Lucifer spread his wings, too, stretching, but he led Crowley lead the way.  They chased the dusk and headed for London.

Lucifer bloody hated his wings.

He hated them so much.

He hated the feel of the wind through the feathers, how lovely it was, how deceptive. He hated their terrific speed, Dad-given, and Crowley wasn’t even pushing himself[17]. He hated the downward stroke, the lift, the setting sun, glorious from this angle. It was all a gift with a catch, all at a price too steep to pay, and that price thundered in time with his heart.

Crowley didn’t know. How could he? How could he not? Surely he’d heard the idiocy before, living with Heaven’s old agent, fierce Aziraphale.

We all have our part to play. You are the demon and I am the angel. You are evil, evil, evil. He had heard it all from Amenadiel, and Michael, and even Gabriel. How on earth had those two made it work?

Chloe was an atheist, or at least she had been. It had taken her time to not assume the worst of him, once she knew, but not that long. She was the loveliest human in all the earthly realms, he was sure of it.  She trusted him like no one ever had, even before the Fall. It was wonderful, and confusing.

“ _How_?” Lucifer asked in Enochian, because it traveled better over the wind and he couldn’t stand the curiosity. “ _How did you make it work with Aziraphale? How did you make him trust you?”_

 _“Didn’t make him do anything,”_ Crowley replied easily in the same language. He looked at Lucifer and slid in the air a little, back and forth, like a shrug. “ _That’s the thing. We got tired of fighting. It all seemed pointless, on both ends. Trust happened over time.”_ Those yellow eyes met him across the distance between their wings. “ _Why_?”

 _“Don’t you get tired of hearing that you’re evil?”_ Lucifer blurted.

Crowley smiled, warm and secret, like being called evil was a tender nickname or something[18]. Lucifer couldn’t even imagine. _“He says I’ve a spark of goodness,”_ Crowley replied wryly. “ _I say he’s just enough of a bastard to be worth liking. It’s all crap, anyway, boss. He knows it, I know it—I bet you even know it. Just names for sides. It was the humans who ate from the tree, after all. Not us.”_

Lucifer blinked. “ _What’s the tree got anything to do with it?”_

Crowley rolled his eyes. _“What’s evil, boss?”_

 _“I am,”_ Lucifer said, bitter.

 _“Right,”_ Crowley said. _“Whatever you are is evil, because evil is defined by you. That’s how we see it. It’s not how the humans see it. They ate from the tree. Those assholes who end up Downstairs – they don’t end up Downstairs because they’re like you. They end up Downstairs because they perceive themselves as evil. They can tell the difference. We can’t. They ate from the tree; we didn’t. For us, it’s just words. So screw it. Humans know what they’re doing, so I’m following their word. Aziraphale does, too. He doesn’t call me evil much anymore, anyway. I defected, you see. I’m on the humans’ side, now.”_ The last was just a little proud.

That was food for thought.

 _“I don’t behave evilly, whatever that means,”_ Lucifer said slowly, _“and that is why Chloe does not think I’m evil? Even though Evil is literally defined by me?”_

 _“Now you’re getting it,”_ Crowley said lightly. _“I don’t understand what the humans see, but I like that better.”_

Lucifer gaped at him. “ _Me too,”_ he added faintly. That was—that was a lot to take in. 

Of course humans saw it differently. Crowley was right. They ate from the tree. No angel would dare, not even Lucifer. They must see the whole world differently, Lucifer thought with wonder. This was it. This was the answer—how Chloe could possibly love him. He must not behave evilly. He must be doing something _right._

Crowley was so right. He was so right. Humans could tell. Better to follow a human than even Gabriel; the human could tell the difference between right and wrong. That was a Hell of a thing.

Below, in the dark, the fuzzy shape of England was starting to loom large. Crowley arrowed toward London, and Lucifer followed, mind racing.

Deep in the heart of the city—Lucifer assumed it was SoHo, though he’d never been there – they landed before a bookshop that must have been Aziraphale’s. Its glass windows were cracked and shattered. Crowley stepped through the wounded glass, looking deeply offended by the hole. Lucifer followed.

Inside, a bookshelf had been turned over, the books scattered. There were cream colored feathers all over the floor, a place where Crowley’s fingernails had dug into the side of a shelf. Angel’s blood stained the covers of some of the fallen books.

It had surprised them, Lucifer thought, looking at the damage. The thing must have torn through the window, and they’d come barreling from the back room, Aziraphale in the lead. The thing had struck and Aziraphale had fought his bewildered way free, staggering back into the bookshelf. It had gone for Crowley, but Crowley had been too quick: he’d darted forward, snatched Aziraphale and gotten them out of there. Maybe Aziraphale had landed a few good blows, because there were weird, dark stains on the floor, as well as angel’s blood. 

Crowley crouched beside one of them. He spared Lucifer a somewhat embarrassed look and slipped out his tongue like the snake he was.  Scenting, maybe, Lucifer thought. Scenting what? The blood? Could he smell the Leviathan?

He crouched next to Crowley and ran two fingers over the dark stain. It tingled and burned uncomfortably against his fingers. Definitely blood. Black, primordial, and he got kind of a sense of _hungry_. Definitely not human, and definitely unpleasant. He breathed deep, too. It didn’t smell nice, that was for certain, but he was not equipped to track by scent.

“Can you track it, do you think?” Lucifer asked, hushed.

“I can try,” Crowley murmured. “I’m no bloodhound. More of an ambush sort of predator, me. But I think I’ve got the scent.”

Lucifer nodded.

By mutual agreement, they rose. Crowley bent and collected one of Aziraphale’s feathers. He caressed the silky down at the bottom, and then tucked it away in his pocket.

Apparently determined, he strode out through the front door. Lucifer followed him.

Crowley winched in his wings once they were outside again and started down the street with determination in his gait. Lucifer followed, silent as the night. Together, they hunted.

It was—weird.

Lucifer had actually been on hunts, many hunts, in Hell. Sometimes the prey was a lost soul, but mostly it was a monster of some kind, a hell-beast. He’d sat atop a firey steed, giant hellhounds and hunter-demons baying at his ankles, and at his command they had tracked down whatever pour unfortunate creature was to be torn to pieces at the end of the hunt. Asteroth and Dagon liked to hunt with him. It was all very tedious, though to be honest he’d liked running on the horse.

This was nothing like that.

Crowley wasn’t a hell hound, for one, or a hunter-demon. He was a little snake in a man’s body. He didn’t bay, or bark, or chase. He just walked, and he didn’t look back.

Crowley led them down absurd, spiraling, drunken paths, but he did actually seem to have caught a scent, judging by the way he knelt down at street corners every so often and flicked his tongue. Once, they found a dead human, or at least a splattering of human blood and bits, like someone had been messily devoured.

Crowley actually pulled out his phone at that corner. He left a quiet message, hissing a little, then hung up[19]. He’d called the cops, Lucifer thought with a funny sort of fondness in his chest. This delinquent demon had actually called the cops about a murder.  At least he didn’t linger after that.

They walked the city until sunrise. Once the Londoners started stirring and making their way toward rush hour, Crowley scowled, apparently losing the scent in the melee. He wandered over to the side of a building and slumped against it, looking dejected. Lucifer fiddled with his Borax-gun.

The rushing humans didn’t notice the two adult man-shaped beings with super-soakers on their backs. Lucifer idly wondered if that was because they were busy, or because they were Londoners[20].

“Sorry,” Crowley said abruptly.

“For what?” Lucifer asked.

“Lost the—” he flapped a hand. “In my defense, I am no sort of tracker.” His yellow eyes were sheepish and hopeful on Lucifer’s, and only the smallest bit afraid.

_Oh._

Something in Lucifer’s chest warmed.  Finally, something he understood! Demon behavior tempered by human behavior—Crowley was fascinating.

A real demon, like Maze, would kneel and show throat and wait for punishment, trembling, for the failure. Crowley had been around humans far too long – like a human, he tried to diminish, and to joke, but he was doing the same thing, just not literally.

A real demon, Lucifer would punish physically. A human—a human would get forgiveness.

“You tried,” Lucifer said gruffly. “Like you said. You’re not a tracker.”

Crowley blew out a breath. His shoulders drooped. “You’re—you’re not gonna make me kneel?” he whispered.

“No,” Lucifer murmured. “No, of course not, Crowley. I set you free.”

Crowley closed his eyes. “Just—checking,” he said nervously.

Lucifer reached out and gripped his shoulder, shook him a little. “You don’t have to check,” he said. “You’re free. I meant it. The only way you’re coming back is if you want it. Clear?”

Crowley nodded. He offered Lucifer a small smile.

“Let’s go to my flat,” he said. “I have some people I can call. I know a guy who has CCTVs wired all around this city. I didn’t want to involve any humans, but desperate times, right?”

That sounded like a good plan. Lucifer followed Crowley amiably back across town. It was a long walk, but he suspected Crowley was using it in the hopes of getting a whiff of that Leviathan again, if he could. No such luck—but a tall, wild-haired man stepped out of a narrow alley at one point and planted himself in front of Crowley.

“This is a really bad time,” Crowley told the man.

“Why don’t you want me to investigate?” the man barked.

“Because I know who killed that guy, and it’s, like, primordial darkness kind of evil, okay, Sherlock, it isn’t your area and you’ll get killed. So kindly back off.”

Sherlock did not back off.

“You’re frightened,” he said.

“Obviously! You should be too! What part of ‘primordial darkness kind of evil’ doesn’t strike terror in the heart of literally anyone who is sane? Oh wait.” He glared at the human. “Find another case. This one is boring.”

Lucifer cocked a head, curious. This human did not belong to Crowley, not the way Ella and Dan and Chloe and Linda and Beatrice belonged to Lucifer, but Crowley must have some fondness for him, if he was warning him off. “Care to introduce us, Anthony?” he drawled.

The stranger’s cold gray eyes locked with Lucifer’s. The stark, desolate intellect in that gaze took the Devil’s breath away. He said nothing.

“No,” blurted Crowley. “Absolutely not! That is a match made in Hell, and I mean that literally! Sherlock, go home. This is a danger to you, and also to John Watson, and not in the fun way. I’m going to go to Mycroft. It’s that kind of bad. _And it is boring_ , you ridiculous human! I know who did it!”

Sherlock pulled his eyes away from Lucifer and back to Crowley. He didn’t even flinch at the slit pupilled yellow. “You can’t find him.”

“Hence Mycroft,” Crowley growled.

“Let me help.”

“No. Go home.”

“You know I can find a man faster than Mycroft,” Sherlock said. “I have eyes all over this city.”

“Yes. And if any of your eyes saw anything, they’ll be mincemeat, I’m sure of it. Find another case. I can give you another case, if you want. Something interesting. Something better. Hmm?”

Sherlock cocked his head like a bird, clearly amenable.

“Gregor Hiselson just robbed a novelty shop three doors down.” Crowley pointed to the storefront. “I promise that lead will be more interesting than this one.”

Sherlock thought about it. Then he spun on his heel and left down the alley, as silently as he’d appeared.

“He is so bloody annoying,” Crowley grumbled.

“Who was that?” Lucifer asked, fascinated despite himself.

“You are not allowed to adopt him,” Crowley said, shaking a finger. “For my sanity’s sake just—no.”

Lucifer chuckled. “Yes, but who is he?”

“Sherlock Holmes. He’s a private detective. Well. He calls himself a consulting detective. Brilliant, and insane, but all the best ones are. He likes interesting cases. He’ll find our Leviathan, sure as the sun will rise, but it’ll get him killed. I’m calling his brother. Just as brilliant, twice as circumspect. Mycroft knows about me. Sherlock only suspects.”

Lucifer watched the alley, where he was certain Sherlock was hiding, listening. “Will the detective like him?” he asked. Might be nice, bringing back another friend[21].  

“He’ll probably call her an amateur,” Crowley drawled[22].  “He isn’t very nice, especially to those who share his profession.”

Hmm. No use keeping someone who might be cruel to his Chloe, no matter how interesting they were. “I’ll trust your judgement.” 

“Come on. Mycroft will find us, too.” Crowley beckoned, and Lucifer followed.

“You think?” Lucifer asked, amused.

“Oh, yeah. He’d been watching us all night.” He pointed at a CCV camera. To Lucifer’s shock and amusement, it nodded. “He mostly leaves me and the angel alone,” Crowley added as they continued to walk. “He knows that neither of us mess around with humans anymore, and he also knows that we only _let_ him see us.”

It occurred to Lucifer that Crowley knew London in ways that Lucifer could only dream to know LA. That London was truly Crowley’s home turf, that he had connections far and away deeper and more significant than a thousand favors bought and sold. With Aziraphale at his side, with similar connections but in the opposite direction, the two of them must know the city’s every breath, every heartbeat. How had he known that the fellow three doors down had been robbed? And by whom?

He wasn’t jealous. He was thrilled. LA was Lucifer’s home. He wanted to understand it like Crowley clearly understood London.

Crowley had a stunning 1926 Bentley parked in front of his building. He preened at Lucifer’s delight, and ushered him up to his flat.

Inside, there was a man waiting. He was balding and serious with a slightly hooked nose. His clothes were fine, his shoes shined within an inch of their life, and he leaned on an umbrella. He stood out starkly against the white—everything—that was the interior of Crowley’s flat. Keeping that clean must be Hell, Lucifer thought. No wonder he stayed at Aziraphale’s bookshop all the time. And what was with all the plants? If Lucifer didn’t know any better he would say they were—terrified.

 The stranger smiled at Crowley.

“Tell me,” he said, “Why is the devil on UK soil?”

Oooh. This was fun. “To be honest,” Lucifer drawled, “The devil would much rather be home in LA, but we have an errand to run. You are?”

“Lucifer, Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft, Lucifer Morningstar. If you kill each other, it will be dreadfully messy,” Crowley drawled. “My money’s actually on Mycroft,” he told Lucifer. “He’s got that human ingenuity; he’ll surprise you every time.”

Lucifer met those reptilian eyes and saw the humor glinting there. He chuckled.

“I have no intention of killing anyone,” he said, and offered a hand to Mycroft. “Crowley tells me you have access to the CCTVs in London?”

Mycroft looked down his nose at Lucifer’s hand. Lucifer dropped it.

I preferred the brother, Lucifer thought sourly.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at Crowley.

“It’s called Leviathan,” Crowley said flatly. “We want to kill it, so it stops eating people. That’s it. You know I’m not in the game otherwise, Mycroft. If I were, Moriarty would have won.”

Lucifer blinked at Crowley. “Who’s—?”

“He’s Downstairs, I can guarantee you that,” Crowley said, a little sharp. He did not look at Lucifer. He did not bow or scrape or fold; he was every inch Hell’s Field Agent, a proud demon, and not a man at all. He kept his eyes fixed on Mycroft.

Lucifer fell silent. He sort of stepped back, and decided to watch how Crowley handled this. Crowley showed fear before ever celestial he came across, besides Aziraphale. He wasn’t afraid of humans, Lucifer realized, even though this human seemed formidable indeed. Interesting.

“No,” Mycroft said smoothly. “Aziraphale would not have permitted that. But it would have dragged far longer than it did.”

Crowley inclined his head. “He’s injured, Mycroft,” he murmured. “Help me fix this. This thing doesn’t belong here.”

Mycroft pursed his lips. “No it does not. Here.” He held out a Manilla folder. Crowley took it carefully. “It left England in the small hours of the morning, on an aeroplane, I believe,” Mycroft said. “It’s wearing the face of a man called Frank Donahue. The aeroplane is inbound—for LA.”

Lucifer’s head jerked up and he met Crowley’s alarmed eyes.

“Thank you,” Crowley told Mycroft. “That’s—that’s very helpful.”

“Take care of it, Crowley,” Mycroft said darkly. “Or I shall take care of it for you.” He strode toward the door, umbrella tapping.

Crowley sighed. He still didn’t seem threatened. “Borax incapacitates them, apparently,” he told Mycroft’s retreating back. “And you have to behead it to kill it. We’re all on the same team, here.”

Mycroft did not turn around. He merely left, the door swinging shut gently behind him.

“What a prick,” Lucifer said cheerfully.

“Ugh, the whole Holmes family is my personal pain in the backside. Come on, let’s get back to LA.”

\---

It was night, in LA, which was sort of a good thing, because it camouflaged the wretched wings. Crowley dived down abruptly, not even a spiral to slow the descent, and Lucifer followed. They arrowed down toward Lux, and Crowley swerved last minute to the parking garage. To Lucifer’s horror, Chloe’s car was there. What was she doing here? Especially here where there might be some horrid primordial monster? 

Crowley led them in a weird, haphazard sweep of the building. They flew around it at nearly ground level, invisible to passerby, though the downdraft from their wings ruffled their hair. Then they spiraled up, and up and up like Crowley had caught a scent but couldn’t quite pinpoint it. That didn't exactly inspire confidence. 

Then Lucifer heard Linda scream. It made his feathers stand on end, made his vision filter red, because Linda belonged to _him_ , and she should not be frightened, not ever, and especially not by the supernatural. 

He peeled off immediately and soared up to his penthouse, Crowley hard on his heels.  He saw the thing as he approached his balcony, and back-winged, unable to land in any sort of way that didn't leave him open to its teeth.

Crowley was right. It was human shaped, probably indistinguishable to a normal human. But there was a kind of wrongness to it, something he couldn't quite pinpoint. Lucifer had spent enough time with demons to be able distinguish human from human  _shaped._ This thing definitely wasn't human. It was male, on the shorter side, with dark straight hair and gleaming green eyes. It was also climbing up his balcony from the ground like a creepy, silly-putty monkey, arms stretching just a little too far to reach the next handhold. He heard Crowley make a disgusted sound behind him. 

There wasn't really a good place to touch down on the balcony, what with the primordial evil thing oozing there, taking up room. It was hard to fit a thirteen-foot wingspan on the little space at the best of times. Lucifer hovered, just for a second, eyes darting for a place to land. 

"Found you," it crooned, presumably to Aziraphale. It craned its neck toward the open doorway, searching. "It was hard; you went over sea. But I already got a taste, and those wings--Angels' wings aren't corporal in my world." It took a crucial step toward the open doors to the penthouse, creating a space to land. "Yours was _delicious_." It hadn't seen Lucifer yet. 

Another step toward the doors, and then Lucifer's heart seized, because there was Chloe, gun drawn. "Stay back," she said sternly. He knew her well enough to see the fear that trembled in the corner of her mouth, but to this hideous creature, that would be near invisible.  

"Well aren't you tasty," said the thing, and it opened its mouth. 

Wide, and circular, like a damned lamprey with a hideous purple forked tongue, the thing lunged with its teeth at his best beloved. Lucifer saw red. He didn't even think. 

He touched down and slashed at it with his sharpened primaries in a practiced move he'd learned as an eyas, just starting his training. The thing turned to look at him, almost lazy, utterly unconcerned about the six slashes bleeding black on its back and sides. When it met his eyes, it chuckled, low and delighted. Chloe didn't hesitate either; she shot it from behind, because she didn't care about honor, she cared about living, and that made her wonderful. The gunshots echoed back from his flat, loud enough to be painful. Lucifer rushed the Leviathan again, another offensive maneuver, but all it did was cut slashes into the creature's body, spilling black blood that stained the tips of his feathers. They healed moments later, but his ridiculous, much-drilled footwork landed him next to Chloe. He rushed up to stand at her shoulder, fists clenched.

“How _dare_ you,” he hissed at the thing. Behind the creature's back, he saw Crowley land on his balcony, silently, looking terrified. 

Chloe glanced at Lucifer, but otherwise didn’t divert her focus or lower her weapon, because she was a warrior, and Lucifer would go down fighting at her side, always. He sort of half spread his wings, threatening with his sharp primaries. 

“Lucifer Morningstar, I presume?” the creature crooned. It definitely did not sound human. It chuckled again, a liquid sound. “Oh, you’re very different here. How _fascinating_ —”

It didn’t get any farther than that. Linda had crept up behind them and tossed the bucket of Borax at it, and the response with instant, dramatic and disgusting. The thing screamed, high pitched and definitely not human, and it writhed, face burning like she’d thrown acid at it. Chloe made a horrified sound, and Lucifer straightened and folded his wings in disgust. Before he could say anything, Aziraphale shouldered past him through the threshold, deliberate, quick and cold-eyed as any guardian angel. His wounded wing stuck out at an odd angle, like it was too sore to fold properly. It kind of ruined the image. 

Aziraphale's sword lit, burning and blazing bright in the night, and he swiped off the creature’s head, easy as breathing. Black, horrible blood sprayed—all over Lucifer and Chloe.

“Ugh!” Lucifer yelped, jumping back. He inched back toward his penthouse. “That—that was—”

“ _Aziraphale again!_ ” Crowley shouted, and Lucifer followed his eyes.

The—the thing had fallen to the ground, crumpled like a broken puppet. Next to its head. And there was something—Oh, the humans wouldn’t see it yet but there was something off about it—could it—reattach itself—?

The reaching black goo suggested that why yes, yes it could. The horrified sound died in his throat.  

Chloe darted from his side. 

He didn’t have time to cry out for her, though his terror was so sharp it could have cut him in two. But she ran ahead anyway, and she punted the mangled, Borax-burned head away from the body. It flew over the balcony and down, down to the ground below, in an arc of disgusting, black blood. 

The balcony went silent.

“So that happened,” Linda said faintly, and Chloe gave a gasping sound that wasn't quite a laugh.

"We're--we're going to have to get that head," she said faintly. "LAPD can't find it; that was stupid. I'm sorry, I just--I wanted to get it away from--it looked like it was going to re-attach--you don't think it's going to grow into another one, do you?" Her eyes were a little wild. 

He stared at her in horror. Who knew? The damned thing was from Nightmare World. What the hell kind of awful place would produce something like that, and what the hell kind of laws governed it?

"I don't think so?" Crowley said, squeaky. "That seems like the kind of thing Castiel would, you know--warn us about."

“Crowley?” blurted Aziraphale, and Crowley shot from the balcony and into the angel’s arms. The sword fell and clattered to the floor, a blazing fire hazard.

Very impractical, a flaming sword. If that thing burned his penthouse to the ground, Lucifer was not going to be responsible for his actions.

“Linda?” Chloe was saying. “You okay?”

Linda looked a little shell shocked. “Did you _see_ that?” blurted Linda. “It just—it just—like I’d thrown acid! It just burned up oh my god--?”

Chloe laughed weakly. “It did! But you got it!” She turned to find Lucifer’s eyes.

He smiled at her. “I think you made a stain in the parking lot. I'll go down and get that before anyone finds it. Aziraphale definitely ruined my suit.”

Chloe laughed again, and she took Lucifer’s hand, twining their fingers. He beamed at her. 

“My brave detective,” he whispered tenderly and at Linda’s indignant clearing of her throat, he added, “And my braver therapist! You set up the final blow!” He lunged to hug her, and she spluttered again as he smeared black blood all over her clothes.

“Lucifer!” Chloe laughed at her protests, and his heart turned over.

It was alright. It was going to be alright. He squeezed Linda one last time, and then leaned over and kissed Chloe's temple. They were going to have to take care of the body lying out there, too.

He stepped up to the railing, spread his wings. On the dive down, he let his mind wander to the people he loved just upstairs; he swooped down on the disgusting thing like an eagle catches a fish. Ugh, it was gross, and the blood burned. What the hell to do with it?

Wonderful, brilliant Chloe had his answer. She had a great, metal safe in her arms when Lucifer landed carefully on the balcony. 

"I found this in your closet," she said. "It was empty. Why you have empty safes sitting in your closet might be a question for another time." She smiled wryly. 

It was for cocaine, of course. Once the little urchin had started coming over, and once Chloe had told him, at length, how drugs could permanently affect a developing mind, he'd invested in a safe. Hadn't loaded it up yet, though. 

"Perfect." He put his gory, disgusting, king of burning burden inside and slammed the door shut. "Middle of the Pacific will do, don't you think?"

"Er," said Crowley, slipping gracefully from his angel's arms, "Let's be sure it doesn't become a second, tiny one first?"

Linda shuddered. "I thought you were being factitious."

"It's from Nightmare World," Aziraphale said dryly. Awkwardly, he shifted his wounded wing, like it was itching. " _Him Above_ doesn't even know what this creature is capable of."

 

 ---

 

_Castiel,_

_You are utterly and completely unhelpful and a disgrace to the angel network as a whole. You did not mention that beheading is only a stopgap, and that they can reattach their heads, and the blood from that thing nearly burned a hole through my_

[scribbles, like two very different people squabbled over the pen.]

 

_My dear Castiel,_

_I am terribly sorry for that; he is rather new to the Network, and still covered in, er, Leviathan. On the contrary, I thought your information was quite helpful, and I imagine that since the rules are rather different in this universe you could not have known everything, anyway. You will be pleased to know that the Leviathan is dead, or at least incapacitated enough to be considered dead, and only two humans were traumatized in the process. Crowley, of course, is in fits; it will take months for the poor dear to calm down. I killed the creature myself, with some aid from both humans, one who threw the Borax and the other who kicked the head. Worked like a charm, I daresay. Tell me, once separated, the body and the head cannot re-grow into two Leviathans, correct?_

_Have you any idea how it might have got here? I haven’t a clue, I’m afraid, but it sets a rather alarming precedent._

_Oh--forgive me, my dear, I must cut this short; Detective Espinosa has just arrived. He is a friend, but he will be quite upset at the mess. Between him and our newest member, this will take quite some soothing._

_All the best,_

_Aziraphale_

 

The angel Castiel blinked down at the letter.

It had come to him, a little late, while his humans were researching a hunt. They were in a motel somewhere in Wyoming, and Boreas had whispered through the room, startling him, and setting Dean shivering. He frowned, not liking that chill.

“What’s that?”

Sam was looking at the letter. Unfortunately, the winds rather liked old-style parchment, so that was what they used. It stood out. 

Castiel sighed. “A letter from a friend,” he said slowly. “It’s…. a long story. His name is Aziraphale, and he’s an angel but—alternate.” He didn’t really want to get into the alternate universe part. It would probably concern them both.

“Alternate?” Dean asked. Too late, he thought wearily.

“Yes. When I was at war in Heaven, I was struck with a weapon that threw me into an alternate reality,” Castiel explained. “There I met Aziraphale, and a demon called Crowley,” thankfully pronounced differently than their resident King of Hell, “And they helped return me to where I belonged. That world is very different, you understand. They keep in touch.” He offered the letter to Sam. “A Leviathan found its way to their world; I told them how to destroy it. Or—at least incapacitate it. They didn’t have the right blade.”

Sam read the letter. It was harmless enough; Sam seemed reassured. “What’s Angel Network?”

Castiel shrugged. “It’s what Crowley calls it; it stuck. Aziraphale keeps track of a few angels on their Earth, apparently.”

“New member seems unfriendly.” Sam handed the letter to Dean.

“They are all unfriendly, so I hear,” Castiel said on a sigh. “One of them is in a cage beneath London, utterly mad, apparently.”

Dean was frowning. “A demon?”

He thought Dean would pick up on that. “Yes. But their universe is very different from ours. Crowley—is a gentle soul. He does not hurt people.”

Dean arched an eyebrow. “You sure? That's a big ask, Cas.”

He did like the nickname. It was a term of affection, and it made him feel warm, just a little. “We watched the movie called Titanic. I believe it exists here as well. He cried.”

Dean snorted. “Fair. Also not liking this Leviathan, man. You sure it was from our universe?”

“Very. I do not know how it got there.”

Dean re-read the letter. “Looks like they took care of it though.”

“Aziraphale was injured,” Castiel sighed, unhappy.

“Well, we’ll look into it, how’s that?” Dean said. “Right after we take care of this…whatever this is.”

Castiel nodded, pleased. “Thank you, Dean.”

Dean waved him away. “Don’t mention it.”

Castiel took the letter back and re-read it, thinking about his response. In their world a Leviathan couldn't be split into two Leviathans, but the rules were different over there. Castiel could, after all, manifest his wings in the other world; who knew how it worked regarding the Leviathan? Perhaps he should caution them. He wondered who the newest member of the Network was; if he was just angry about the fight, or simply had a bad disposition, and why Aziraphale had not given his name…

 

 

\-----

[1] Even Beatrice, Dad dammit, she’d grown on him. Like a fungus. He still maintained that children were disgusting, but if anyone dared to hurt that girl he would rend them limb from limb.

[2] “You did it at two AM, boss, and you put marijuana in it. Humans get funny about marijuana, particularly when there are children around. Where there children around? Of course there were.”

[3] This was untrue. Michael didn't answer because technically speaking he was only allowed so many trips to Earth, and he'd used them all. He only got to make the occasional trip on technicalities. Of course he'd heard Crowley's call. He was _dying_ to go down and battle the monster; he hadn't had a good fight in years, but Gabriel had caught him at the gates and that was that. Crowley was the Serpent of Eden, thought Michael sulkily, not even convincing himself. He could definitely handle one little monster. Lucky bastard.

[4] Lucifer had never actually met any of the Knights Templar, while they were alive, at least. A good portion of them ended up in Hell, though, and their loops tended to be absolutely delicious. Lucifer loved it when his Dad’s warriors crossed that mysterious line between righteous and guilty.  
  
What Lucifer didn’t know was that it was Crowley who had taken them down, steadily eating away at their reputation and finances, in the bloody fourteenth century. He’d actually gotten a commendation for it – signed by Abraxas. The Knights had killed Abu al-Durr and his daughter Jan, both with the best sense of humor Crowley had encountered in years, who had taken him in during a storm. He’d been halfway in love with Jan, who had liked to garden, and who had taught Crowley to raise a seedling. She’d smeared mud on his face, and they had laughed themselves sick. The rage at their deaths had simmered in Crowley for a long, long time. He’d nearly broken the Arrangement, even. Crowley hated the fourteenth century.

[5] Also, he loved her with gasping, burning intensity because he didn’t _have_ to come on to her. She’d stay close even without the sex, and that was so novel, so strange, that it always made his heart pound. Not that he didn’t adore sex, but this added a whole new dimension to things, warmth without demand.

[6] They heard him. They loved him, and they thought he was silly. Mostly, the stars tended to twinkle Little Mermaid’s Kiss the Girl at him every night, all the time, because his hesitation with that golden-haired mortal was just _ridiculous_. Thank the Burning Black that he’d finally gotten over himself and done it!

[7] Surprising because _hell no_ would Lucifer let her put her sticky hands into his feathers. She might slash herself on his primaries! Fun because, well—she turned out to be terribly enthused about the whole thing and her small hands could get to all the best itchy spots. Chloe could reduce him to a puddle, but Beatrice just made him laugh. He still wouldn’t let her touch the primaries, though. Little girls shouldn’t get near Dad’s horrid, war-like additions.

[8] Hellhounds were kind of convenient in that they became whatever you called him. There was a boy, in Lower Tadfield, who by certain definitions could be considered Lucifer’s son, though that was definitely Belial’s fault and Lucifer hadn’t really been keen on the whole thing anyway. The boy had one, anyway. He’d named it Dog. Waste of a good Hellhound, that.

[9] Had a nice ring to it, _safaleri,_ for all that it was completely absurd to call any demon, ever, something like _sunshine_. It was ridiculous even for sweet natured Crowley. Dad, but these two were mushy when they thought no one could hear them.

[10] “Miraculous to see,” a reference to Virgil’s Aeneid. 

[11] “To hear,” Crowley corrects, because even totally freaked out he is kind of a shit.

[12] Most demons wouldn’t even know what a damned omelet was, but they’d offer to make it for their king, sure enough. And they would burn it, every time. Even Maze would burn it.  Lucifer had a sneaking suspicion that Crowley wouldn’t. But of course, he wasn’t offering.

[13] In case the gentle reader doesn’t know, the Golden Ass is one of very, very few Roman novels that we have. In it, the main character gets transformed into a donkey, and it’s all about his journey to get himself untransformed. It is screamingly funny, deeply horrible, and big on animal abuse. The reader, should they seek this story out, should be warned that Roman morality is not modern morality, and in order to enjoy this novel as it is meant to be enjoyed, it should be read through the lens of, “YOU SICK MOTHERFUCKER ARE YOU SERIOUS??” and then it becomes quite funny. Crowley really wished he had not had a similar experience as a house slave, but frankly speaking, those Romans were totally messed up, particularly Publius Aurelius, may he rot in Hell. 

[14] As it turns out, this threat was entirely moot, as Islington had been ejected unceremoniously from its prison cell about thirty years prior. Aziraphale did not know this, of course. It sounded good, anyway.

[15] Listen. Lucifer had really liked Atlantis. Especially their wine, which was so alcoholic that it could get even him a little tipsy. When news of its destruction had filtered down with the descending souls, he had actually contacted Above, demanding to know what the hell had happened.

“Islington,” Gabriel had said, uncharacteristically somber. “He sank the city. He will be punished.”

Not enough, Lucifer had raged, but no one had responded. He won’t be punished enough!

[16] It really was. Crowley knew it, and Aziraphale knew it. It was trust, the demon thought with an ache. Aziraphale offered the sword out of trust, and Crowley refused it, this time, because Aziraphale might need it. He hoped that meant he deserved that trust. Anyway, Aziraphale really had to stop giving the blessed thing away; it had got him in enough trouble the first time.

[17] Crowley had learned, long ago, that if you did everything angel-fast all the time, you missed out on the finer things in life. He wanted to get back to Aziraphale, so he wasn’t dragging his feet, so to speak, but a ten minute flight was really not that different from a two minute flight, when you got right down to it. In ten minutes, you could really enjoy the feel of the wind, and Crowley was going to take what he could get from this blessed shitshow of a hunt.

[18] It totally was.

[19] “Lesssstrade, hi. Got a body for you – or what’s left of one. Don’t ssend himself after it, this isn’t your area, trussst me. It wasn’t a murder. It was lunch.” Then the click of the machine, and Greg Lestrade stared at his phone in mute astonishment. Crowley was generally such a reasonable bloke, too! Always willing to help make Holmes-related squabbles—because frankly each was bad as the other for the department—disappear. How the hell was he supposed to keep bloody Sherlock off a case that apparently involved cannibalism, and why the hell did Crowley want him to?

[20] It was because they were Londoners.

[21] Like he was really going to let Crowley dictate which humans he could adopt. Please. Lucifer loved adopting new humans. It was kind of a problem.

[22] Crowley was incompetent, but he was no fool. He liked Sherlock, despite himself, but the man was a disaster waiting to happen, and at this point Crowley knew better than to get involved. That one was going to go out in a blaze of glory and just – no thank you. Bad investment. Moving on.

**Author's Note:**

> CHINESE TRANSLATION, thanks to the wonderful [ Lacudra ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lacudra/pseuds/Lacudra)! You can find it on Ao3 [ here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20291188) and on Lofter [ here](http://www.lofter.com/collection/lixiny619/?op=collectionDetail&collectionId=367803)!!


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